User blog:Apollo42/A Throne of Ash: Part VII
“Your Highness, a messenger has come to you from High Chancellor Hassildor, from the Rift Front.” Corvus Lux announced into the Prince’s tent, his right hand grasping the hilt of his sword, Goldbrand, tightly. If Maerys noticed the man’s tense manner, he said nothing, instead standing from his gilded chair across from Gemina, the Oracle, looking towards the entrance to the tent. He dusted his black tunic off, and gestured for the Dragonguard to let the messenger in. Corvus nodded outside, and a man dressed in resplendent golden armor stepped in. The front of the breastplate was embossed with two dragons twisting about each other, and the helm was carved into the shape of a dragon’s maw. The man removed his helm, and Maerys’ mouth tightened. Vedin’s brown hair was bedraggled, and his eyes were red, bloodshot, and puffy, as if he had been crying for days and had just now run out of tears. The bags under his eyes were dark and purple, almost like bruises, and it was plain to see how tired he was. Still, he stood straight and looked Maerys directly in the eye, not showing his superior any deference. “I think you’ve spent too much time with the Crown Prince, Vedin.” Maerys said, covering his own disdain with a look of bemusement. “You’ve forgotten how to bow.” Vedin’s tired face seemed to sag in defeat, for just a moment, at the mention of Pyron, but he quickly recovered, his face returning to stony impassivity. “Your Highness.” He said, quietly, bowing before the Prince. Maerys frowned, almost stunned by how easily he had beaten his older brother’s companion. He had grown up with Vedin, and he had never known him to be so defeated. They were not friends in the least as children, as they disagreed on almost everything, but Maerys had always agreed their verbal bouts. “I… heard you have a letter for me?” The Prince asked, gesturing for the man to stand up once more. Vedin nodded, distractedly, and handed the letter, sealed with the Chancellor’s personal emblem, over to Maerys. Maerys broke the seal and began to read, finding himself actually surprised by the contents. His uncle explained the relationship that had been formed between Vedin and his brother, and how the former whipping boy had been forced from the Rift Front to serve Maerys and separate them. On top of that, his uncle Bryn requested that Maerys put him on the front lines of his own battles, hopefully to result in the death of Vedin and spurring Pyron on to kill the Usurper, Tarin Blackfyre. Maerys looked up from the piece of paper and gazed across the room at Vedin Darkholme, his green eyes scanning the older boy’s face for a few tense moments. Due to the letter having been sealed, Maerys knew that Vedin had not read the letter, meaning that Maerys could conceivably get away with putting him on the front lines, in the center of the army, one of the most dangerous spots to be. The Prince considered this, and numerous other factors, before coming to his decision. He moved over to a nearby candle and set the paper aflame, letting its ashes drift into the wind. Vedin was like a brother to him, even if they disagreed, and he would not sacrifice his own brother. “So… you and Pyron, huh?” Maerys asked, awkwardly, gesturing for Vedin to follow as he stepped outside of his pavilion to gaze at the stony hills of the reach. His pavilion currently rested on a bluff overlooking his encampment, and Makar dozed peacefully beside his tent. Corvus gazed at them as they left, but seemed to judge that he need not follow. Vedin’s voice broke as he spoke, saying only, “Yes, Your Highness.” Maerys nodded, looking down at his encampment. “Word will spread, eventually, you know. You need to prepare yourself to deny everything.” He felt Vedin’s flinty gaze on him, but he did not turn to face him. “I will not deny it. I’m not ashamed of the love I bear for your brother.” Vedin said, his voice as cold as stone. Maerys turned to look at him, now, locking eyes with him. “Good. If any man gives you trouble for it, tell me. I’ll quickly deal with it.” Vedin’s eyes widened, as if shocked by Maerys’ reaction. The Prince smirked, slightly, as Vedin voiced his confusion. “You… you’re okay with it?” Maerys chuckled, softly, to himself, gesturing to the warcamp. “I have bigger things to worry about than who’s fucking who. And, anyways, the Two-Faced God was said to have a few male lovers. It’s natural.” Vedin considered this statement for a moment, before cautiously nodding, figuring it would be a trap. “Speaking of… um, the war…” He coughed, awkwardly trying to change the subject. “I saw what you did in Falkreath when I passed through it trying to catch up to you.” “I take it you don’t approve.” Maerys said, coolly, gazing down at his army once more. They were only a few miles from Markarth, where the remnants of the Darksteel Company had joined up with some Jarl. He intended to crush them as soon as possible, and he was eager to get it done. His only issue was that Markarth was entirely made of stone, and it wouldn’t burn. Vedin hesitated, not wanting to sacrifice the newfound acceptance that Maerys had for him. “It was a smart move, crippling the Nords in the south. They won’t be able to move against anyone for some time, but…” He coughed. “It was… cruel.” Maerys sighed. Gemina had said the same things to him. “This is war, Vedin. Those men would like to see my family eradicated, even down to my little brothers, who are only children. I did what I had to do to ensure that my family would live on without issues.” Vedin shifted, hopping from foot to foot, but otherwise said nothing. Maerys now held his life in his hands, and Vedin saw no point in frustrating the younger boy when he no longer had Pyron to protect him. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” Maerys asked, striding down towards his warcamp. “There’s only so much time in the day, and I’d like to take Markarth by the time the sun sets.” He felt a firm hand grasp his arm, and the boy prince turned around, expecting to see Vedin or Corvus trying to urge caution, or restraint. Instead, he found himself staring into the pupil-less eyes of the Oracle of Rimmen, Gemina Argon. “I’ve seen how this day will go, Maerys, and there are some things I need to say to you.” The seer said, holding his arm so tight that he could feel her nails digging into his skin. If she kept up much longer, she’d draw blood. Maerys found himself starting to grow irritated. “Well, then, spea-“ He was cut off by the sound of a warhorn blowing. It wasn’t one of the Legion’s horns. He whipped around, seeing how his men in the valley below were starting to scramble about. He hadn’t expected an attack, and he’d put his men in a valley. Stupid! Gemina grasped his arm even tighter, whipping him back to face her. “There’s no time!” She hissed, before grabbing his face and pulling him in close, pressing her lips to his fiercely. Maerys was stunned by the gesture, but then things got stranger. His vision went black, and… the landscape changed. He wasn’t in the Reach anymore, he was… by a birthing bed, with a redheaded woman shrieking as she brought a child into the world. He somehow understood that Gemina was somehow imparting a vision onto him, but the scene changed as quickly as it had come. He was at a wedding next, a silver-haired man drawing back the veil of a pretty blonde woman. Gemina’s voice began to echo around him, but none of the party-goers seemed to notice it but him. “You can’t tame a fire, Maerys. You have to let it burn. In its wake, let it bring renewal. A new life. Rebirth. You’re not going to want to, but atrocities need to happen in order to prevent-“ The landscape changed, and suddenly he was on a battlefield. Twisted creatures tore men apart, dragons battled in the sky, a figure with two swords contended against a man wearing a wreath of bones, while other figures threw themselves at even stranger men and women. Bright lights flashed across the clouds, as if the sky itself was trying to tear itself apart. “-This. Strengthen your bloodline, Maerys, and let the horrors come to pass. It will save the world, and your family.” Scenes flashed by, one after the other. A burning house, a storm threatening a besieged island, a young silver-haired girl clutching to a wizened Dunmer man, that same girl burning cities. “Your bloodline will bring the world into an era of peace and prosperity. But… in order for the world to be renewed, it’s going to be burned down first.” The visions ended, and Maerys blinked as he was brought back to reality, Gemina drawing away from him. Vedin and Corvus were already scrambling down the hill, shouting orders for the men to line up and get ready for the attack. An army had appeared on the opposite side of the valley from Maerys, and the nearest enemy soldiers were already dashing down towards his encampment, led by a man that was so huge Maerys could easily pick him out from the rest of the crowd, even from this distance. “Gemina, what-?” He started, but the Oracle lightly pushed him away. “You have bigger things to worry about, now. Go on.” She shooed him, gently, before turning and walking back into Maerys’ pavilion. The boy prince pushed the visions from his mind, turning to focus on the task at hand. He was reeling, everything that he had thought would happen was coming undone. He was being attacked by an unforeseen enemy! His men were still scrambling, and it looked like they hadn’t gotten into battle lines yet. They were going to be crushed. Maerys dashed towards Makar, the sleeping dragon beginning to rouse itself as it heard his footfalls. It raised one, massive, golden eye, staring at him. He ran about, fitting the straps of his saddle onto the base of the dragon’s neck. He had to get into the air, create a distraction for the enemies, give his men a chance to prepare themselves. The boy prince snatched up his dragonlance, the twenty-foot spear that he used to attack from the air. He clambered onto the dragon’s back, screaming, “Icaeros! Icaeros!” The dragon lazily began to move, clambering to its feet, ready to take wing. The ground shook as a roar echoed across the valley, and Maerys looked with wide eyes as another dragon entered the battlefield, one even bigger than his own. ---- Vedin crashed into the melee, watching the men around him scrambling for their armor or dying before they could even raise a hand. He swung his blade around, catching a man bearing the symbol of the Darksteel Company in the throat as he drove a spear into a Legionnaire. “To me, to me!” Corvus roared across the battlefield, trying to rally his troops. He leaped onto a nearby horse, setting himself tall among the battlefield. The Legionnaires would be able to see him, but it also made him a target. The Legionnaires scrambled for the Dragonguard’s position at the back of the camp, so Vedin fell in line with them. They didn’t have much time to form up lines before the Darksteel Company slammed into them once again. It was a frenzied assault, almost a slaughter. It was hard to differentiate who fought for who, due to the nature of the surprise attack. Vedin used his sword to deflect a spear thrust, stepping in and driving his gauntleted fist into the man’s throat, sending him choking and gasping to the ground. The young warrior heard an earth-shaking roar, but did not react. He had fought with Aaron, so he knew the sounds of dragons. Only the Morgans had them, so he decided it must have been Maerys and Makar. Of course, he didn’t see how the dragon would be much use in this mob; the armies were intermixed. Vedin heard the crackle of the flames before he felt them. He threw himself to the ground, feeling the tremendous heat threatening to burn him as he covered his head with his hands. He had luckily been at the point just before the flames hit the ground as the dragon carved a fiery swath before it as it flew, through both armies. He gazed at the scene, incredulously, looking to the sky to curse Maerys for burning his own men, only to see… a different dragon. This one was larger than Makar, with scales a light pink, like a sunrise. It’s horns and the skin of its wings were black, and Vedin couldn’t see the person that rode this terrible beast. Makar roared and rose to meet it as it began to round again. Vedin leapt out of the way as flames showered the ground once more. He looked up in horror as he saw the flames heading directly for Corvus Lux, the General of their army. If the flames connected, their army would fall apart in the field. Corvus tried to stir his horse to escape the fires, but he was surrounded by men and had no room to move. Vedin screamed as the flames washed over the man. For a moment, there was silence, followed by the cries of thousands of Legionnaires. The pink dragon turned to meet Makar, and it released its streams of fire. When the smoke cleared, Vedin’s eyes widened in shock. Corvus was alive. The man sat on his horse, his arm outstretched. A golden sword gleamed in his arms, rippling as it seemed to almost draw the heat from the air. The flames dissipated around the horse’s feet, although the horse still seemed immensely skittish. The blade was a thing of beauty. Lightly curved on one side, in the style of Hammerfell, yet not so much as to be considered a scimitar. It was more like a katana, but not quite that either. All eyes were drawn to the blade, which rippled with power. Goldbrand, the fiery sword created by dovah thousands of years ago to protect them. Now, it was the sword of the leader of the Dragonguard. A protector of the Morgan Dragonkings. A cry went up among the Morgan Legionnaires, a cry that seemed to rally the troops. They fought back harder, as if they believed that their Lord Commander could protect them from dragonfire and harm with his magic sword. And then, the Giant entered the battlefield. Standing at nearly eight feet tall, the man wore nothing but a chainmail loincloth and a silver circlet about his shaggy head. The circlet was designed to look like a wreath of bones, but that was not the most horrifying part of him. His black hair hung long and shaggy about his shoulders, matched by a great dark beard that hung to the center of his chest. His eyes were mismatched, one nearly twice the size of the other. His nose was lumpish and swollen, as if it had been broken dozens of times over his lifetime and never fixed. The man’s mouth seemed frozen on one side, while the other was twisted in a horrible masquerade of a grin. Magn the Monstrous, Heir of Clan Silver-Blood of Markarth and Jarl of the Stone City and the Reach. In one hand he carried a great steel battleaxe, that a normal man would struggle to bear in two hands. In the other he bore a three-headed spear. A trident, Vedin thought. He cleaved a man in two as he waded through the bloody mess. The Jarl of Markarth did not seem to even notice that the man was one of his own. He was headed for Corvus. “Corvus!” Vedin screamed, trying to get the man’s attention as he struggled to fight his way through the crowds to help the man. The Dragonguard Leader had not yet noticed the Jarl, preoccupied as he was with rallying the men. There was no way that he could fight such a man, Vedin thought as he drove his sword through a man’s neck and picking up a spear from a nearby Legionnaire. He threw it towards the Jarl, but it passed over his head harmlessly. Magn kept carving his bloody path through the battlefield, and men started to fall over themselves as they scrambled to get out of his way. Corvus only noticed the monster when he was dragged off of his horse by his own silver-and-blue cape and tossed into the crowd. Vedin dashed towards, but was held back by the two armies as a circle formed around the two men, as if the battle would be decided by their dance. He thought he heard dragons roar above him, but he was too focused on the duel before him. Corvus Lux was a storied hero, a man who had lived through many battles and was one of the most famous swordsmen of his age. But, he was an old man, and Magn was huge. Magn was faster than a man of his size had any right to be. He danced around Corvus’ sword strike and harried the Dragonguard with his trident, jabbing it into his forearm. Corvus howled in pain, but retaliated by whipping around and cutting Magn across the chest. Vedin watched in horror as the wound closed up. It took a few seconds for it to do so, but the bleeding stopped and the skin closed over itself. Corvus noted it, too, and his brow knitted in concentration. Goldbrand glowed, faintly, flickering in and out before it stopped glowing completely. It was as if the sword itself realized that the battle was lost, and was trying to flee its master. Corvus darted forward, trying to drive the golden blade into his enemy’s gut, but the Monstrous Man stepped into it, accepting the sword in his stomach. Corvus looked up in horror as the man loomed down upon him, dropping his trident and picking him up with one hand by the throat. Corvus struggled against the strong fist, his legs flailing weakly in the air. The golden sword slowly fell from Magn’s gut as the wound healed, dropping to the dusty ground beneath him. The sound of Corvus’ neck cracking resounded through the battlefield, and the man’s body fell beside his golden blade. A great cry of fear and horror resounded throughout his men, and Magn raised his arms above his head in victory. The men parted, and Vedin stepped through, his eyes burning with determination. He would die before he saw the battle lost. ---- The city was silent as the gates opened. Even from the Imperial Palace, one could hear the cries of anger as the armies of Leyawiin and Cheydinhal discovered the great city of New Imperia to be silent. Every man had a beast in him. When you put a sword in his hand, the beast is released. But where does the beast go, when there is no one for him to unleash it on? Sure, there would be gold to be found, but there was no one to stick a sword in. A sword of either kind, really. Soldiers had no restraint. It took them nearly three hours to make it through the city, scouring it clean, before they finally came upon the Imperial Palace. The gates were open, the dragonyard emptied, and the guards were all gone. “What trickery is this?” The voice rang out through the palace, as dozens of men began to scour it clean, searching for the Emperor. They had meant to take the man captive, or kill him, in the name of the Blackfyres. If he was gone, they still had the Ruby Throne. Anyone could claim it now, it seemed. The city was empty. The Soldiers of the combined Leyawiin-Cheydinhal forces opened the door to the Grand Hall, letting the two Counts in. The first was Carvel Indarys, a Dunmer man in the middle of his life. He was short and burly, bearing a broad tower shield and a Dwemer Warhammer. The other count was Andrien Caro, a young man only a few years older than Dyanna herself. He was handsome and lanky, and carried a simple Legionnaire’s sword in his right hand, while his left bore a shortsword. Both men stopped in their tracks, staring at the throne. Dyanna lounged lazily, laying across the Ruby Throne. One hand twirled her scimitar, Darkheart, a purple Hyacinth Blade, while the other traced light circles across her kneecap. She was outfitted in leather armor, made for speed, and her dark red hair was pinned back from her face by a golden circlet. Dyomedon sat by her feet, his own claymore lain across his knees. Hekura was standing behind the throne, her head down and her face overcast due to her hood. Telemad was the nearest to the invaders, flipping knives into the air lazily and catching them over and over. He was leaning against the pillar closest to the Ruby Throne. None of the four Underelves seemed to notice the invaders until the Count of Cheydinhal spoke, saying, “Who are you to sit the Ruby Throne?” He demanded. All of their purple eyes snapped to him at once, almost eerily. One of the Legionnaires from Leyawiin openly shivered. It had been one hundred and thirty-six years since Underelves had become known, and yet they still unsettled many Overlanders. “Princess Dyanna Harin, Betrothed to Prince Maerys Morgan, fourthborn son of Emperor Daenar the Second.” The sixteen-year-old girl said, her voice like steel. “I hold as much right to the Ruby Throne as anyone, it seems. I have some Morgan blood, and that seems to be all that’s needed for some.” Andrien paused, his face clearly showing his shock. “You mean to claim the Ruby Throne, then, My Lady? You would seize a throne from not one, but two, absent Emperors-to-be?” Dyanna hadn’t actually considered it before that moment. Her grandmother was the aunt of the two warring men, Daenar and Tarin. She didn’t have a dragon, like they did, but she was the heiress of Arik Morgan’s own kingdom, an inheritor of his legacy. She didn’t have dragons, but she had phar’makai. There was no better opportunity to seize the throne than right now. She could end the patriarchal primogeniture of the Ruby Throne. But, was that just? “No, I’m not.” She said, after a moment’s silence. “I’m keeping it warm for the true Emperor.” Andrien’s face seemed to visibly sag in relief, as if now he didn’t have to wrest a little girl from the symbol of the Empire. “Lord Tarin will be glad, my lady. How did you manage to take the city without apparent bloodshed?” Dyanna raised an eyebrow. “You seem to be mistaken, Count. I’m keeping it warm for my future family.” Dyomedon stood up, his eyes turning blue and crackling with energy. Mist curled about Hekura’s feet. Telemad drew his shortswords. And, last of all, Dyanna stepped away from the Ruby Throne, holding her scimitar out towards the invaders, to buy time for the people of New Imperia to get as far away as possible. Category:Blog posts Category:Morgannic Canon Category:Stories Category:The Legend of Nirn